The Wistful Letter
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate was a cavern of amber light and heavy velvet, where the air hung thick with the scent of beeswax, rotting orchids, and the metallic tang of old silver. It was a space designed to intimidate, to crush the individual under the weight of its own grandeur, and tonight it pulsed with a low, rhythmic thrum that seemed less like music and more like the beating...
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